


Of Tea and Toast

by elldotsee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adam's apple, Blow Job, British men and their tea, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Food Kink, He knows EXACTLY what he's doing, Jealous John Watson, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John can't contain himself, John deduces right back, John is Smarter than he looks, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, One Shot, POV John Watson, Pretty damn smart then, Sexy Sherlock, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Smut, Teasing, blackberry jam, sherlock deduces john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 22:31:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14294871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/pseuds/elldotsee
Summary: “Now Sherlock”, he continues, purposely making his voice low and husky. He feels Sherlock’s pulse quicken. “It is very dangerous to come to a conclusion without having all the evidence, wouldn’t you agree? Very dangerous, indeed.” He leans closer still, touching their foreheads together and breathes, “Luckily for you, you seem to have all the evidence you need right in front of you.”





	Of Tea and Toast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [searchingforlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/searchingforlight/gifts), [Thornypeach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thornypeach/gifts).



> This came to life after a night of silly texting with my "Writer's Club" (and entirely too much wine and not enough sleep). 
> 
> "What if Sherlock is like...eating all sexy and John just can't contain himself?" 
> 
> And thus... this happened. :) Also, Jealous!John is always my jam, as is John "Smarter Than He Looks" Watson. He's onto you, Sherl. ;-) 
> 
> For my girls ;-)

“Do you still text her? The Woman, I mean. I know it’s none of my business, but I thought I heard, y’know, her text alert last night …”

John shifts his weight and leans against the doorframe of the kitchen where Sherlock is seated at the kitchen table, deeply engrossed in an experiment with his face pressed to his microscope. He doesn’t look up, but John is certain he sees the corner of his mouth twitch slightly.

“Why, John? Does it bother you if I do?” The detective looks up then, eyes flickering over John from head to toe like a specimen.

John clears his throat and straightens up to disguise the shiver that ripples through him at such close scrutinisation.

“No. No, it’s nothing. It’s nothing, really. It’s just that noise, it’s a bit crude is all. Thought you might like to change it. I could show you how, nothing to it really. If you’d like.”

A small smile drifts across Sherlock’s face as he leans back in his chair. “Yes, John. You can help me change it. But first, would you make me some toast?”

“I - Toast? Sure… I - yeah. I’ll make you toast. Tea, too?”

“Please. With milk?” Sherlock smiles and returns to his microscope. John stares at the curly mop of hair for a moment before shuffling over to the bread box and pulling out a few slices. He pops them in the toaster and starts the kettle, before leaning back against the counter, arms crossed in front of him. The gorgeous man at the table continues to work, fiddling with the dial of his instrument, occasionally murmuring to himself and jotting notes down on his notebook page. John tips forward casually to read it, but Sherlock’s arm shifts just then and obscures the words.

When the toast pops up, he turns back to the counter to slather some jam- blackberry, Sherlock’s favorite- onto the toasted bread and pours him a cup of tea, adding his customary splash of milk before carrying both the plate and teacup to the table. He sets them down directly in front of the microscope and waits for Sherlock’s eyes to drift back up to his. Once he’s back in the same realm, Sherlock clears his throat.

“Thank you, John. It looks … delicious.” Sherlock’s already deep baritone seems even deeper than usual, rumbling across the middle space and burying itself low inside John. John holds his hand out for Sherlock’s phone and feels his face flush when their fingers touch. It’s probably his imagination, but John could swear Sherlock’s hand lingered a bit longer than is strictly necessary during a friendly hand-off of an item.

“Right. I’ll just … it’ll only take a second to change the---” John trails off as his mad flatmate takes a bite of the toast and licks a few crumbs off his lips. John feigns a cough and takes a sip of his own tea, scalding his tongue. “Fuck! That’s hot!” He sputters, setting his mug back on the counter with a bang. 

Sherlock quickly looks down at his plate, but not before John sees the tiniest hint of a smile tug up the corners of his mouth. When Sherlock looks up again, however, the expression on his face has morphed into something quite different. John knows this look- it’s the look of pure determination Sherlock gets right before he sets off to solve a new piece of casework, be it interviewing a suspect or analyzing sweets remnants on a wrapper. John holds back a disappointed sigh- why on Earth would I be disappointed?- and looks back down at the phone in his hand, thumbing through Sherlock’s Contacts and scrolling to the appropriate one. The Woman. John rolls his eyes and quickly switches the ringtone back to Default, feeling a ridiculous thrill of satisfaction. He turns back to his tea and takes a slow sip to wipe the smirk off of his face before turning around to hand the phone back to the very busy detective, planning to escape to the safety of the sitting room before he says or does something to give himself away. 

But the not-very-busy detective is not solving anything at all. Instead, he is staring at John with a hungry look on his face that couldn’t possibly be satiated by toast and tea. A small flame of desire - and hope - dares to burn deep inside John’s chest. He watches as Sherlock picks up his toast again and slowly, deliberately slowly, takes another bite. He chews once, twice, three times, the muscles of his jaw taut and his cheekbones bouncing with each crunch. He swallows and John can’t help but stare at his Adam’s apple quivering in his long, pale, achingly beautiful throat. John’s hands twitch at his sides, wanting to reach out and stroke and kiss that marble column of perfection. Their eyes lock and Sherlock slides his tongue out to lick the corner of his mouth where a bit of jam has smudged, never breaking his gaze. John feels a stirring below his belt and so he hastily busies himself with setting the phone on the table and stepping back to lean against the counter. Every atom in his body is screaming at him to flee to the sitting room now, to be a good Brit and pretend nothing monumental is happening in this kitchen this very moment. But the air is electric, sparkling and humming and he’s afraid his life depends on it, even though it burns inside of him when he breathes and it prickles across his skin. He picks up his mug and takes a sip, feigning nonchalance but knowing deep down that nothing gets past the sharp-eyed man gazing at him now. John’s eyes drift back up and he is momentarily lost in a sea of cerulean. Their eyes lock again and Sherlock’s narrow ever-so-slightly. John knows he is being deduced, but instead of feeling vulnerable, he feels empowered and suddenly giddy with realization. 

In two strides, he is across the kitchen, planting himself between Sherlock’s long legs. He steps close, merging their personal space until it’s impossible to tell where one begins and the other ends. Sherlock’s eyes widen and he sucks in a startled gasp. John knows that a few months ago - possibly even just a few weeks or days or minutes ago - he might have read that as hesitancy, or worse, rejection. But the signs are undeniable: Sherlock wants him. Impossible as it may be, the evidence never lies. Feeling nearly delirious with affection, John tilts Sherlock’s chin up with one finger. 

“Dilated pupils.” 

He places one hand flat on Sherlock’s chest, sliding it under the lapel of his jacket, relishing in the cool silkiness and firm pectoral muscle he can feel. With his other hand, he reaches down until he catches longer, more slender fingers in his grip. He guides Sherlock’s hand onto his own chest and presses to keep it in place. 

“Elevated heart rate” 

John leans closer, until their mouths are only centimeters away. He can feel the warm puff of Sherlock’s breath ghosting over his lips. 

“Erratic breathing” 

“Now Sherlock”, he continues, purposely making his voice low and husky. He feels Sherlock’s pulse quicken. “It is very dangerous to come to a conclusion without having all the evidence, wouldn’t you agree? Very dangerous, indeed.” He leans closer still, touching their foreheads together and breathes, “Luckily for you, you seem to have all the evidence you need right in front of you.” 

Neither move, not blinking, barely daring to breathe as they hover in the same space. This is a chasm, a precipice on the edge of which they are precariously balanced. They both know that this time, falling would be a welcomed relief. And yet…

In one swift movement, Sherlock is out of his chair, grabbing John by the wrist and spinning him, pushing him back until his hips bump up against the counter. Before John has time to react, Sherlock’s lips are on his, crushing and desperate. His large hands grip John’s shoulders and rub over his back, his arse, his sides. John weaves his fingers into inky black curls and holds tightly, opening his mouth to taste and caress with his tongue the parts of Sherlock with which he is not yet familiar. He tastes of tea and blackberry jam and mint. He tastes of longing and fulfillment and adrenaline. They devour one another, messily grabbing and stroking, tugging shirts over heads, divesting of socks and belts and finally, trousers. The thin fabric of their pants - cotton and silk - rub together tantalizingly and they both pull back, panting.

Their eyes meet once more and then there’s running and stumbling and oh-my-god-what-took-us-so-long. They tumble as one onto the bed, kicking aside sheets and blankets until they can slot together, breathing a sigh of relief as Sherlock hooks his leg over John’s and trails his hand up his stomach and into the fine hairs peppering his strong chest. Sherlock leans down and follows his hand with his mouth, dropping small kisses and licking and sucking. He tugs on one dark nipple, drawing it into his perfect mouth and John lets out a gasp. His hips buck up of their own accord and Sherlock smiles. 

“Ah” he whispers against John’s lips. “I think I have nearly enough data to reach a solid conclusion now.” 

John makes an undignified sound in the back of his throat, which causes Sherlock to chuckle. John knows he would feel annoyed at being laughed at if he wasn’t so distracted by the warmth pooling between his legs, begging and pleading to be released. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and watches as Sherlock reverses his trail of kisses, pausing lazily to suck and nibble at his other nipple on the way. When he reaches the elastic band of his cotton boxers, Sherlock peeks up at him from underneath a mess of curls, deliciously disheveled. John gives an almost imperceptive nod, but he knows Sherlock understands. He closes his eyes and feels the soft cotton as it slides down his legs, lifting one foot to kick it to the side and then --- THEN --- the world is silenced and all he knows is the wet hot slide over silken skin, the colorful bursts of pleasure, a flitting tongue, a scrape of teeth, the edge of pleasure-pain. He feels the pressure building low and he throws his head back into the pillow, gasping. 

“Sher--lock. Please. S-s-s-stop. Close. Too-cl-close” 

There is a sudden void as the searing wetness is removed and John feels bereft until the lanky man climbs on top of him, smashing their mouths together and thrusting his tongue and hips in syncopation. They moan and shift until ahhh - yes - right there - and the crescendo reaches its peak, spilling its secrets and meshing two into one. 

For a long while, neither man moves, limbs turned to liquid, panting into damp skin. The smell of musk and sweat surrounds them, with just a hint of tea and toast and the world makes sense for the first time. 

Finally, someone breaks the silence. 

“Dinner?” 

“Starving.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Boredom Solution](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14816195) by [CumberCurlyGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCurlyGirl/pseuds/CumberCurlyGirl)




End file.
